Nightingale Blossom
by Still believes Snivellus aka Heather Granger
Summary: Written from two different perspectives, this is a story of how one student tries to get one lonly root to blossom. You have to read to find out what I am talking about.
1. Part I

**Nightingale Blossom**

**By**

**Snivellus aka Heather Granger**

A/N: This is written in first person, switching off between two people. Every time you see a **NNN** break, it means it is a switch in perspective. I wrote this story rather quickly, but for some reason, I really really love it! I couldn't believe how fast and well it was going. I hope you like it too! Please review I like to know what people think of my work.

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When you have spent nearly all of your life alone, it is easy to become cynical. It become second nature to shut others out, and push them away. When you have never experienced love that one so desperately yearns for, it is easy to shut down all emotions. It is easy not to miss what you have never had. I know what everyone says of me, what they think of me, afterall I am no deaf man. I let their whisperings roll off of me like water in oil. They do not know me, nor will they ever know me.

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I walk down the damp cold stone steps down to the dungeons. It is late, and I have spent my evening in the library once again. I had left my potions book on my desk after class today, and though that it would be best to retrieve it before tomorrow's early class. I grab at my cloak, which covers my frame, trying to shut out the cold that lingers in this dark place.

Curfew is in thirty minutes, and I promised Harry and Ron that I would look over their transfigurations essays before the night was over. I near the classroom door. I see that is slightly ajar as I glance in before pushing the door out of my way to make room for me to squeeze by. There is candlelight flickering from the corner where Professor Snape's desk sits.

"Enter." I hear him say.

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I heard her breathing from outside the doorway. She had left her potions book on the workbench today after class. I had of course placed it with the others, which are so frequently misplaced. I was surprised that out of all my students, she would be one to leave her book. I glanced inside the tattered book, which she has had since her first year here. Inside I found in neat script writing, "Hermione Jane Granger, Witch" She had written the word witch in capital letters, as if to reassure herself that she was one.

I often found with muggleborns, that they somehow feel cheated, that their life growing up half the time as a muggle was a waste. I do not understand this. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be a witch or wizard. Why would you want to live a double life? Why would you have to pretend to be two people, when clearly there is only one you? Being born a pureblood is not a luxury, it is not a life where you were born with a wand in your hand. No, you are constantly being told not to do magic for fear of overexposure of the world in which we grow up, and if they do want you to show off to their other high society friends, you get whipped if you can't produce a wingaurdum spell at the age of four. Don't fidget, don't speak, don't laugh, don't exist. The pureblood world is filled with don'ts.

As much as we hid magic from the muggles, there has always been a small part that tugs at them, wishing that their childhood stories of werewolves, unicorns, and flying were true, it gives them hope, it is after all it's magic. However, what is left for those who know that it does exist? What happens when you have been flying, an know that it can give you motion sickness. Or touching a unicorn is just like touching any other horse? Where is the magic for those who grow up in it? Where is the hope? At least being a muggle, there is still the hope that something greater may exist, that sometimes life is just like magic.

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I peer into the classroom, trying to determine if he is in fact at his desk. I do not wish to anger him further. Earlier he had assigned us a three-roll essay on the effects of mood enhancing potions. I see him in the corner, marking essays. He rests his head on his hand, closing his eyes briefly between marks. His greasy black hair hangs in sections around his face, covering the beginnings of age lines near his eyes. The war has taken a toll on everyone, but I always thought that he bore the brunt. Harry and he were so alike, and yet so very different.

"Do you plan on watching me all night, or do you need something?" He snapped suddenly, shaking me from my thoughts.

I walk in slowly, but confidently. I am no longer the silly little girl he once called me. Many of his NEWTs students knew that, while he was still just as strict as ever, he was not as intimidating. He left us mostly to our own devices in class, and would lecture only once a week. He has built himself quite the reputation over the years, but I cannot believe it all to be true.

"Sorry sir, but I believe I left my book in here earlier. Have you seen it?" I ask.

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"It is over there, I would think that a student of your stature would be more careful where they left their school belongings. I am not a storage bin for your convince." I replied haughtily.

She has grown. She is no longer the nosey little know-it-all, but she is strong, confident, and most obnoxiously courageous. I let out an inaudible sigh, and continue marking my third year's essays.

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"Thank you sir." I respond, now having learned to ignore his personal remarks. I look at him more closely now. I realize that my professor before me is not some hideous creature that wishes to torment all young children, but that he is just a man. He is a man with very little in his life besides his potions and teaching. I hear him sigh slightly, and I stop and for some reason I yearn to reach out to him, to comfort him. Nevertheless, of course I knew better than to show compassion to him.

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She is still in my presence for some unknown reason. She just stands there and looks at me. I do not return her glance, but instead go on ignoring her. I sometimes wished that I could be a man who was not afraid to ask my students how they were, and if their family was well, but it was not my style, I did not get personally involved in their lives, because I knew all too well that it would only cause me pain and jealousy. The pain of a lonely childhood, the pain which I had endured while in school, and the pain which I still endure of my own guilty sins, would only worsen my jealousy of their somewhat more perfect lives.

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"Sir?" I ask, not knowing why I bothered to speak.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" He responds monotonely.

"What is it about the nightingale blossoms, that make them so rare?" I ask, knowing the answer, but for some reason, I felt that he would respond to a question of knowledge, rather than a personal question, which would cause him to unleash a barrage of verbal attacks on myself.

The nightingale blossom, only bloomed every three years on the summer solstice, and could only grow on the equator, where the temperature never dropped below 80 degrees. The flower was very temperamental, and could only be brought to full maturity with attention and care, and if left in complete darkness the flower would wither and die, leaving only a dried root.

I wait patiently for his answer, as he seems to ignore my question and continue marking the essays. I, however am still not deterred, and have firmly planted my feet on the stone floor, waiting for an answer.

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Who would ask such a question, I think to myself? We have not even begun our discussion on nightingale blossoms, and yet she has the gall to stand before me and ask me about them, at nine thirty and night no less? I think to myself of the answer, and how somehow I compare myself to the dry root.

"Miss Granger, why you require such an answer tonight of all nights is beyond my comprehension, however because you have been kind enough to reprieve me of questions all this week in class, I shall answer your request." I reply finally, after it looks like my silence has only made her will to stay stronger.

"The nightingale blossom is rare because it only grows in the warmest of temperatures. It is a highly temperamental plant, and it must be constantly cared for. If it is left in complete darkness it will die, leaving only a dried root. The blossom is used in many healing potions, as well as the draught of living sacrifice." I reply, as I say this my heart begins to ache, and I look back down to my essays.

"And what of the root? Can anything be done to save it?" She asks, moving closer towards my desk.

"Why would you want to save a dried root? Nothing good can come of it." I respond.

"But what if you could save it? How would you go about trying?" She asks more impatiently now, and I am beginning to feel that we are no longer speaking of the nightingale blossom.

"Some things are beyond repair, the root cannot be saved." I say again, now seeing that Miss Granger is nearly standing next to me now.

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I listen to him respond to my questions. I knew right away he realized what I was trying to do, but what I did not expect was for him to continue to respond. When I asked how I could go about saving the dried root, his response made my heart ache. He was alone, and no one knew his pain, but he would not receive their pity, nor would he ever want it.

I thought of what to do, whether I should leave and let him be in peace, or if I should stay, maybe another person to bare the load was what he wanted. Either way, I cannot explain what compelled me to do what I did next.

"Sir, with all due respect, I think that the root just needs care to blossom." I respond. He looks at me with fire in his eyes, I have clearly crossed the un-crossable line. I prepare myself to leave, when I notice that he simply sat back down and continued working.

"Professor, do you mind if I work in here until you are done?" I ask, knowing that I am not ready to leave yet, hoping that by staying I can somehow show him that I care, without him thinking that it is out of pity.

"Take a seat Miss Granger."

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I watched her as she took out her essay and opened her potions book. I know I should have been more upset with what she had tried to imply, but the fact of the matter was, she was the first student to ever do so. Even my Slytherins, never asked anything personal of me, although I never offered anything freely. I wondered what it was about her that made he so different, so unique.

I finish marking my essays as it now nears 10 o'clock. I push back from my chair, as she looks up at me. I motion for her to stay where she is, as I go into the storage room, to look for something. As I run my hand around the top of my shelf, I feel the item I had been searching for. I take it, and walk back to where she is sitting.

"You should go, it is almost curfew, I don't suppose you would like to loose house points." I say in a more normal tone.

"Yes sir." She replies, as she hurries to stuff her work in her sack. As she busies herself, I release the object in my hand, so that it may fall on to the work bench. She looks over to it, and then back to me. She obviously recognized what it was, as her face showed one of confusion.

"Maybe you shall be the first to nurture a dried root into a blossom." I say.

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His words rang through my head, as I watched him move effortlessly out of the classroom leaving me alone in the dimly lit classroom. His message was clear. I took the root and held it in my hand, hoping that maybe someday I could get it to blossom.


	2. Part II

**Nightingale Blossom**

**By**

**Snivellus aka Heather Granger**

**Part II**

"Good morning Neville." I say rather cheerfully, as he looks up from his breakfast.

"Morning, Hermione. Ron and Harry are still finishing their transfiguration essay. They said they waited up for you to help them, but you didn't get back until curfew." Neville said.

"Yes, I had to speak to Professor Snape about a matter, actually, maybe you can help me." I said now turning towards him. I reach into my pocket and reveal the root.

"Do you know what that is Hermione?" Neville asked nervously.

"Yes, it is a nightingale root, Professor Snape gave it to me last night, I was hoping I could get it to bloom."

"Hermione, once the nightingale turns into a root, there is no hope in saving it." Neville told me.

"There has to be a way!" I nearly hiss. Now I find myself acting somewhat like Professor Snape, how frightening.

"Have you done any research?" Neville asks me.

"No not yet, I haven't had time but I was planning to look in the library after classes end today." I confide in him.

"I have NEWT's Herbology today, I can talk to Professor Sprout about it if you wish." Neville says as he banishes his plate away.

"Would you? That would be fabulous." I exclaim, as I grab my sack from the floor.

"Where are you going?" Neville asks me.

"I have to drop off an assignment for Arithimecy, then I have Potions." I say taking a bite of toast.

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I watch as my students file into their seats. I clear my throat loudly, which causes them to all fall silent, something I admit I enjoy. I see that Miss Granger takes her usual seat in the second row next to a Ravenclaw girl, Miss Sangeral. I notice that Miss Granger is looking at me, more so than usual. I break eye contact quickly, and turn my attention to my blackboard. I wave my wand and reveal the day's lesson. The students quickly gather the ingredients that they require, while I speak.

"Today we will continue our work on mood enhancing potions by brewing the Delerium draught. Begin."

I pace the room, occasionally making remarks on their work. I stop short of Miss Granger's work station. I look over her should and watch as she places the asphodel into the potion. I stay and wonder if she kept the root. I wonder why she stayed quietly to do her work. I wonder what her motivation is.

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I can feel him breathing down my neck, his presence brings a sense of unease, and I drop my measurement tool. He makes a snide remark as I bend down to pick it up, he too bends down to pick it up for me. I touch his hand briefly, then quickly withdrawal. He looks away, and practically heaves the measurement tool onto my workbench and moves on. I did not know what to think of this interaction, and quickly get back to my work.

I finished my potion, and class soon ended. I pour my potion into my phial, and put away my ingredients. I am always one of the last students to leave class, and today as I prepare to leave, I notice that Professor Snape has cut himself on an improperly put away knife. I hear him curse under his breath, while grabbing his cut hand.

"Are you all right sir?" I ask as I walk over towards him.

"Fine, leave me be." He snapped.

"You should go see Madame Pomfrey, the knife could have some residual potion on it." I state, now standing in front of him.

"I, unlike you, can take care of myself, I said leave." He hissed.

"Here, let me see." I say, now reaching out to see the cut.

As soon as I made the movement, he flinched and withdrew. His other hand flew into the air, hitting me on my face. I grabbed the side of my face and flew out of the classroom.

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I still do not know why I reacted the way I did. Why did she have to touch me? I did not ask for her help. Nosey Gryffindor, she should have left like her classmates. I mutter a healing spell, and watch as the last drops of blood squeeze out of the quickly healing wound. I was expecting a knock at my door, from the Headmaster, asking what possessed me to hit a student. How was I going to explain this one? I had barely gotten away with nearly hitting Potter with a jar of cockroaches two years ago.

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I was unsure of what to do, I wasn't mad, nor was I upset. I knew I had stepped over the line, he was a professor, a grown man. I was a teenager, his student, I shouldn't have touched him. It wasn't as if I found him attractive, but I just felt the urge to help him. After last night, I wasn't sure what to do, how to act around him. I touched my face where he had accidentally slapped me, it was still warm. I would not give up on him so easily, I would return, even if that meant facing more ridicule. There had to be a reason, a reason he acted the way he did. He was pushing me away, just as he pushes everyone away, but why, what caused him to flinch?

Later, I met up with Harry, Ron and Neville for lunch, and spoke nothing of my incident down in the Potions classroom. They did not achieve their NEWTs level Potions, as I did, and so I had given up a long time ago trying to justify my reasons for taking Professor Snape's class.

"Hey Hermione, I talked to Professor Sprout and she said that while there has been no documented cases of successfully nurturing a Nightingale root to a blossom, she did not seem to think it impossible. She said that it might require several potions that would aid in its growth, but she did not know of any specific ones off the top of her head." Neville supplied me.

"Oh, thank you Neville, I do appreciate it. Did she say anything else, like whether it might require special soil, or water?" I ask again.

"Well, from what I know of the Nightingale blossom, it is usually kept in the dark, until planting in the sunlight. It grows best in humidity, that of the equator. Really if you want any chance at all of getting it to grow, you should go down to the equator and plant it there." Neville said as he took a bite of his sandwich.

"Hey, Hermione, I thought you were interested in potions, not herbology." Ron commented after listening to Neville and I's conversation.

"I am conducting a project which requires both." I state, taking a bite out of my apple.

"Sounds like loads of fun, what did you run out of items to study for the NEWTs?" He asked sarcastically.

"For your information, I am still currently studying for the NEWTs and if you two had any sense you would be as well. This project is an extracurricular activity, so you can think of it as my hobby, as Quidditch is yours." I state.

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There it was, the knock at the door, it only took Albus eight hours for him to hear the news of my hitting a student, Hogwarts best student to be exact. I had not gone to dinner in the Great Hall, and had avoided leaving my classroom at all possible costs, all I needed was to be threatened by the girl's best friends, misters Weasley's and Potter. I straighten my robes, and wait for him to enter, but he does not. Albus always knocks and then promptly enters, a ritual, which I cannot comprehend. If you are going to knock then it is polite to wait to be asked in. If you come straight in what is the point of knocking.

"Are you going to come in, or have you finally learned some manners." I say sarcastically to the person behind the door.

"I am sorry to disturb you again sir, but I was wondering if I could ask you for something." I hear her voice.

"Granger, haven't you had enough of disturbing me today?" I hiss.

"With all due respect, it was you that hit me, not the other way around." She snaps back. So she has a backbone after all, I was beginning to think that she was no better than mister Longbottom.

"What is it now, Miss Granger?" I ask impatiently, she is obviously here to annoy me, for what other purpose does she serve.

"I was wondering if you might have an old pot, that I could use to plant the root you gave to me." I hear her mumble slightly.

"Do you think me a Herbology Professor? You think by sticking it in some pot, covering it with old dirt, and watering will make it grow? How very naïve." I say to her.

"It is all I can offer it. You know, I think if I give the root all I have to offer, it will appreciate the gesture and begin to grow." She cunningly responds.

"And what precisely is all you have to offer?" I ask in return.

"I have caring, and kindness, and compassion, and most importantly respect for it." She responds.

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He looks at me from the other side of his desk. He looks at me, not with loathing, but with confusion, perhaps? I cannot tell. I watch as he opens his desk drawer and takes out a stone. The stone was very plain, and ordinary. It was not smooth or shiny, but rough and jagged, cut with a million imperfections. I scrunch my eyebrows in curiosity, wondering what he is doing.

He takes out his wand, and mutters a spell with French origins. I could not make it out, but I did notice the imperfect rock as it transformed into a round bowl, in which I could place my root.

"Perhaps if we would both give a little, you can make that damm root of yours grow." He says as he hands me his bowl.

I notice that he had covered his healing cut with a white cloth, which was poorly tied. I look at him as we both held onto the bowl. I put the bowl down, as the cloth came untied. I pick it up and hold it out for him to take back, but for some reason he does not snatch it this time, but looks down at his hand.

"Perhaps, if it is not an inconvenience you could tie it back on for me." He says so softly I almost did not hear him. I could not believe that he was asking for help, my help nonetheless.

"No problem at all, but I would appreciate it if you did not hit me this time." I smile slightly trying to lighten the mood, but yet he did not change his expression.

I carefully touch his long hands, they are rough and callous, perhaps a hazard of the profession he has chosen. I gently pull his hand closer to my body so that I can get a good look at it. I nearly have to pry open his hand, in order to see the almost healed cut. He tenses as I do this, and briefly catches my gaze, I can tell that he is highly uncomfortable. I take the white cloth and wrap it several times around the wound, tying it off with a double knot, which he will no doubly have to cut off when the wound is completely healed.

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I try not to shake as she touches me, as it has been a very long time since someone had touched me, especially touched my hands. I always felt that hands were private parts of the body, only to be used for one's personal benefit. A wizard's hands were necessary when it came to casting magic or stirring a potion. My hands on the other hand were necessary to hold on to pillows so tightly that the pain escaped through them. My hands were necessary to pound the desk in front of me, or to ball up in tight fists to control my anger.

I stay still as she finishes tying my bandage, why I had asked her, I am not sure. She seemed to on some other level understand me, or at least wanted to understand me, something no one has ever tried. It was true I had built up impossibly high walls, but she seemed up to the task to climb them. I somehow admired her for that, and so I tried. I tried to be civil, I tried to bring the wall down, and make just a little bit easier for her to climb.

"Thank you, I hope the bowl is adequate." I say. She squeezes my hand softly before letting go, I do not know why.

"It is quite adequate thank you." She responds as she places the root into the bowl. She takes out a packet of dirt that she must have collected earlier, and pours it in around the root.

"Do not be surprised if it doesn't work Miss Granger." I say.

"It will work, it just might take some time. Do you mind if I keep it down here, I have read that the plant prefers dampness, and seeing how damp it is down here in the dungeons, I was hoping I could keep it here.

"Very well, but do not expect me to take care of it for you." I respond.

"I would never do that, besides I am now bound to care for it, I made it a promise." She says placing the bowl on one of the unused workbenches.

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"I will be back tomorrow evening to check on its progress." I tell him confidently.

"Are you not going to water it?" I hear him ask as I prepare to leave for the night.

"I think we both know that it is too early for that, I think we shall take things slowly, I don't want to drowned the poor thing." I smile, and turn to leave.

"Good evening Miss Granger." I hear him say for the first time. I smiled as I walked back to Gryffindor tower.


	3. Part III

**Thank you for all of your reviews. I was sick this past week, so it took me a bit longer to write this part than usual. I hope everyone likes the latest installment. I am trying to keep it away from a romance as much as possible. **

**Nightingale Blossom**

**By**

**Snivellus aka Heather Granger**

**Part III**

I can't help but feel proud of myself, I have spent the past two weeks with Professor Snape after dinner, without him yelling once. Some days I would only stay for a few minutes and we would say nothing to one another But other days I would get into a lengthy discussion about how the bans of certain potions were required, and others were highly unjustified. I could not say for sure if he enjoyed these visits but nonetheless, he did not ever send me away.

Most exciting of all, I had gotten the root to sprout, of course, it was only a tiny shoot, but it was progress. I knew that I would have to plant it outside soon, if I wanted it to survive.

I finish my dinner in the Great Hall and head down towards the dungeons to care for my plant. The Potions classroom door was closed, which I found to be highly unusual, Snape always grades homework after dinner. I knock, but there was no answer. I had to care for my plant or else it would die, so I wiggle the door handle to check and see if the door is locked. Surprisingly it is not, he must of left it open for me, that or he forgot to lock it, I like to think that it was the first option.

I look around blindly, the room is dark, so I quickly mutter a lumos spell to light my way. I find my tiny plant on the workbench I left it on the day before. I pick up the pot and carefully examine to see if it has grown any since yesterday's visit. The small green sprout is poking ever so slightly out of the dirt. The color seems to be a bit off, from what my books have described it to be. The shoot of a Nightingale blossom should be a greenish hue with a touch of golden condensed in the center, however my shoot appears to be greenish blue with a reddish condensed center. After contemplating a bit over the difference, I determine that it has to be because the tiny plant has yet to be exposed to the sunlight.

I look through the shelf of pre-made potions that Professor Snape keeps in stock. My fingers dance across the labels, searching for one in particular. Finally, I come across it, Draught of Patience. I carefully place a few drops on the soil, and watch as the plant soaks it in.

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I seemingly drag my feet back down to the dungeons, I had to speak to the Headmaster about Potter's bloody Occulumcy lessons, apparently the boy is incapable of blocking out his emotions, even the Headmaster himself has been unsuccessful in his tutelage. The Headmaster asked if I would attempt teaching him again, to see if he would make any progress. I however responded by telling him no, and somehow after an hour of attempting to find every excuse possible, I now am scheduled to meet with the boy next Tuesday.

I run my hand over my face, trying to wipe away the frustration, however it does not work. I never ask for much, a little recognition for my efforts occasionally would be welcomed. I do my job, I may complain on occasion and make my frustrations known, but why not? Why am I not allowed frustrations? Why is it that others can be angry and I cannot? Why am I looked at like the plague when I merely state the obvious? Potter can jump foolhardily into extreme danger, and is met with open arms. No one's arms are open for me.

As I reach the Potions classroom, I see the door is ajar. As I am positive I shut it before I left, I draw my wand and enter cautiously into the room. Finally, I can catch the student who has sticky fingers, a mystery that has been ongoing for the past six years.

"Who's there?" I hiss.

"Professor!" She jumps.

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I heard his voice, it frightened me, and I struggled to keep hold of my tiny plant in my hands. I set the plant down, as he sweeps towards me. He is not pleased, apparently he did not leave the door unlocked for me. He quickly flicks his wrists and brings the room into light. Just as he comes towards me, he takes a sharp turn towards his left and goes to his desk.

"What precisely do you think your doing?" He asks in a low threatening voice.

"I am sorry sir, I had to take care of the plant, and it would die other wards." I say quietly.

"Miss Granger, give it up! For Merlin's sakes, do you not get it? The plant will not grow. I played along with your little whim for a while, but I do not appreciate being annoyed by your presence every evening. I am a professor, I spend all day with children, I like to be left alone in the little time that I have to myself, now take your plant and leave me be." He yelled at me. I stare back at him, how dare he call me a child!

"I am not a child!"

"Whether you choose to believe it or not Miss Granger, you are still just a child!." He yells back.

"You know, I felt sorry for you, being all alone, but obviously my feelings were misplaced. You are a mean, heartless man!" I yell, fighting back tears of anger.

"50 points from Gryffindor for your disrespect. Get out of my classroom." He hisses lowly.

I run out of the classroom having forgotten my plant on his desk.

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Why do girls insist on crying? She just had to cry didn't she? I did not ask her to leave her plant in my classroom. I did not ask her to make me some type of experiment. I am not a man who asks for pity. Yes, I will admit from time to time I do like some acknowledgement, but I do not want it in the form of pity.

I could have not been as harsh, I could have sugar coated my feelings as many of my colleagues do, but I am not that kind of man. The girl must learn that not everything is capable of being saved. Sometimes the damage goes much too deep to be repaired. Spending years and years in the dark, it would be impossible for it to grow.

I look over at the ridiculous plant, it's sprout staring at me, mocking me, showing that it has grown, that it is still alive. If she can fix a stupid plant, why can no one fix me? Why will I not let them help me? Why am I so afraid?

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I slam the Head Girl's bedroom door shut. I throw myself rather haphazardly onto the bed and start to cry. Why does he have to be such as snarky bastard? Why? There must be a reason. I thought I knew, I thought it was because he felt no one cared, that he only had his stupid potions, but I guess I was wrong.

I was not helping him, not really, after all I had done the past two week. Maybe I should have reached out in a more forward manner. Maybe I should have shown compassion him in another way.

I turn over so I am now staring blankly into my ceiling. What kind of life has he known? Why can I not help him? Why can I not ask him what weights so heavily on my mind? What am afraid of?

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The next morning, as I head towards the Great Hall, I see the plant lying on my desk. I knew I would have to face her today, NEWTs Potions was always directly after breakfast. I think the Headmaster planned it so that I would not loose my temper as quickly. Last year NEWTs Potions was at the end of the day, directly after First years Potions, that was a bloody catastrophe. I believed I received seven howlers a week from Seventh year student's parents, claiming that I had made their daughter cry, or that their son had received far too much homework.

I take my seat at the staff table for breakfast, I notice that Miss Granger decided not to show. This means one of two things, one, she was in the library, or two she was avoiding me. Neither really should have bothered me, but the way she looked at me when she told me that I was a mean and heartless man, I could not help but feel a twinge of dare say guilt.

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I arrived one minute early for Potions, for me this was being tardy. I always arrived at quarter to nine in order to set up for the day's lesson, but seeing as I was avoiding Professor Snape, I saw it fit to be late. As I walk into the room, I notice that he is busy scribbling away on his blackboard. I also see my plant. It is withered and weak looking. I have to take it. I quickly walk to the desk and put my hand around it.

"Put it back Miss Granger." I hear him hiss.

"But sir?" I question.

"I said leave it, now take your seat, do not make me take points." I let go, and walk to my desk. So now he wants the plant to die? I truly was wrong in trying to understand him.

"Class, today we will be starting on the Draught of Patience. The instructions are on the board, if you did your reading, this potion shall be easy work for you. Begin." He says to the class.

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I watch her, glaring at me. She is apparently still bitter from the night before, I do not blame her, after all I know all about bitterness. I look again at the tiny plant on my desk. I think of the magnificence of a Nightingale blossom, how each petal is unique, how each one takes on its own variant of color. I had seen a nightingale blossom once, I was much younger then and the world had not weaved its wicked fate, and I had not yet been my own undoing.

The bell chimes, and my students begin cleaning up for the day. I again look at Miss Granger, stuffing her books in her sack with the force of a hippogriff. I smirk, she should have been in Slytherin, she would have done well had she been a pureblood.

She heads towards the door, I call out to her.

"Miss Granger, come here." I say in a rather low voice.

"Sir?" She questions, do I detect a hint of contempt? I dare say I do.

"You forgot your plant." I say, pointing at it.

"You said I could not have it back." She replies.

"Do not speak for me, for you heard no such thing. I had every intention to give it back, however did not want you fussing over it when you clearly needed to concentrate on today's lesson." I merely point out.

"Thank you sir." She responds as she takes it carefully off my desk. I watch her as she turns to leave.

"You will have to plant it outside soon." I say, this makes her stop.

"I was planning on it."

"Where?" I ask.

"In the school garden I think, Neville has several plants growing right now." She says now looking back at me.

"It would be a shame if it were to be trampled by one of Hagrid's hideous pet projects, as they tend to spend a majority of their time so near by." I say sarcastically.

"I suppose you have a better idea?" She questions.

"Why most certainly." I say rather pompously.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Meet me here at 10 o'clock on Saturday, I will show you where to plant your little project. I may think this idea is hopeless, but that root did not come cheap, and if you were on the off chance to succeed, perhaps I can gain beneficial research material."

"Thank you." She says as she walks silently out of the classroom. I watch her as she leaves, thinking that the girl has far more patience than I, putting up with me that is.


End file.
